


don't you want to share the guilt?

by adeleblaircassiedanser



Category: Agent Carter (Marvel Short Film), Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Cartinelli - Freeform, Drinking & Talking, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Grief, Grief/Mourning, Het, If You Squint - Freeform, Nicknames, Platonic Sex, Trust, canon compliant up till season 1 finale, evening dress, everyone is bi, failure to do proper research, fight me, matey-type mates, or like... colleagues with benefits, tagging is the struggle yall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-06-17
Packaged: 2018-04-04 19:08:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4149477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adeleblaircassiedanser/pseuds/adeleblaircassiedanser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Alright, alright. Keep your pants on." He whistles. "Say, Agent Carter, I'd forgotten you could swear like a soldier."</p><p>"I was a soldier," Peggy says, and tries to keep the petulance out of her tone. "And you know you can call me Peggy."<br/>--</p><p>Friends help each other out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't you want to share the guilt?

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to SarahKay for reading this over and telling me I am not crazy. My deepest apologies to anyone who cares about historical detail and accuracy. Title from the Kate Nash song of the same name, although actually "Pumpkin Soup" is a better fit to the spirit of the song, if not as quotable haha.

It's not like that between them. It never has been, and they're better for it. Now, after some initial friction, they have found a sort of rhythm. They do good work together, and she'll probably be forever indebted to him just for the welcome introduction of Jarvis into her life. Now that the war's good and over, though, they have less and less in common. The biggest _thing_  that keeps them loosely tied is this heavy, cold grief that neither of them has any desire to bring back up. Peggy's moving on. Stark never stops moving, always with a girl or an idea or some hare-brained scheme which is sure to implicate her in some way. She doesn't like living on his generosity, but the flat is quite nice, and the look on Angie's face... Well. He'd nearly got her fired, she'd taken one of his apartments. They're even, more or less. Their relationship is always like that, though, push and pull, because both of them keep their cards close to their chests. In the immediate aftermath of Steve's death, she'd witnessed the open, horrible grief she was feeling that first day reflected on Howard's face as well. On the second day, though, both of them smiled, her standing up straight and giving orders, him in that carefully practiced slouch, hands in pockets, every inch the clever, carefree inventor. That was the first time she'd thought she might have underestimated him somehow. The mutual respect between them has grown over time, but it's never settled into a friendship, not like the one she had with the Howling Commandos or with poor Colleen, easy and open and honest. It's always a game, with Howard. But it's a game she's bloody good at.

Take now, for instance. Peggy is leaning on a railing in one of the rooms at the famed Stark mansion, drinking champagne and smiling as though she goes to these parties all the time, and because she enjoys them, rather than as an undercover mission or a concession to a friend. In her head, she's going over the files she and Sousa had compiled today in relation to the new mafia case. She hasn't the slightest clue what event or purpose has made necessary such an ostentatious display of hospitality. Nevertheless, one of Howard's staff had sent the invitation to the apartment, never mind the fact that it was Howard's apartment, and he could just as well have had Jarvis ask them in person and saved the trouble of sending it in the post. But it had arrived anyway, in a gold brocade envelope, and Angie had opened it. One look at the gilded lettering on the expensive card-stock ("requests the honor of your presence..") and her face lit up. She'd looked at Peggy, her eyes bright with excitement.

"Can you believe it, English? I mean, wouldya look at this, I haven't seen writing this fancy since I-don't-know-when, what is a gay-la anyway?"

"It's like... a ball. A big, fancy party for rich people. Usually it's themed, or related to some cause or another. Just Howard and a lot of his like, standing around smoking cigars and blathering on about sport, or politics, or-"

"But this'll be like if I was a real actress, won't it? All dressed up like Rita Hayworth in that movie I made you see. I don't know what it is about you and movie theaters, but that was a good- anyway, my point is, I wanna go. Don't you?"

It was terribly difficult to say no to her, about anything, which is how Peggy had ended up sitting in a dark movie theater a scant two weeks after the fiasco with the pram-induced killing spree from crate 17. And how she has ended up here, again, wearing an off-the-shoulders dress which is too tight at the waist and yet giving her no support, and watching Angie dance on the floor below. She's a good dancer, and Peggy hopes that one of her partners will end up being a director or a producer who'll see Angie for the treasure she is and maybe actually get her a job. Should it be necessary, Peggy would be willing to get Howard involved. She rejects most of his offers of help or gifts for herself, but a favor for a friend is a quite different thing.

Speak of the devil, Peggy thinks, because she can see him now, strolling, smiling at guests, making small talk. She can't fathom how he can keep up that much small talk. It's exhausting just to watch, honestly. After greeting every other person in the room, he comes over and kisses her cheek. She allows it.

"Can't say I expected to see you here, Miss Margaret." He looks at her consideringly.

"Don't call me that."

"Peggy, then. I mean, what is Peggy Carter doing at one of my parties? She's not the type to go out just to have a good time! There is important work to be done!"

"You are insufferable. I'm here because my roommate loves dressing up, and I owe her a number of favors."

"Angie, right?" Peggy nods. "She's cute, but I remember I promised you I'd keep my hands off."

"Don't shit where you eat. We are work colleagues, and she's my closest friend as well as my roommate. I've no interest in being the middleman when things quickly and inevitably go pear-shaped between you."

"Alright, alright. Keep your pants on." He whistles. "Say, Agent Carter, I'd forgotten you could swear like a soldier."

"I was a soldier," Peggy says, and tries to keep the petulance out of her tone. "And you know you can call me Peggy."

"Well, ease up, Peggy, all right? You need another drink."

"Have you got anything stronger? Cyanide, maybe?"

He jerks his head towards a dark hallway, and when she hesitates he grabs her wrist to pull her along. There's something about the way he does it- careful, almost, his eyes flicking up right away to make sure he's not overstepped- that keeps her from protesting. Howard doesn't turn on a light, but a short way down the hall he pulls out a key and opens a heavy wood door.

"This is my second study," he says as the lights come up. "I don't like guests coming back here all willy-nilly. There's valuable stuff I keep in here. He's behind a huge mahogany desk now, rummaging in a drawer, and then he lifts out a bottle. "Take this, for example. Gibson's Finest. It's eighteen years old, and you wouldn't know tasting it that it's Canadian. It's probably a little overpriced considering the tariffs, but they were the only ones who really came through Prohibition and the war with a little bit of flavor left, not the blended shit the rest of them are trying to pass off as-"

"Howard," Peggy interjects sharply.

"Huh?"

"Stop trying to sell me the whiskey, we both know I've not got the money. Just pour me a bloody glass. Please?"

"Gladly, milady."

"Don't call me that either. I don't know why you feel the need to discover another nickname when "Peggy" serves perfectly well."

"I dunno, I think it's got something to do with me making sure I don't call you dollface or something worse by mistake. It's just habit."

"You were right, this is quite good. May I have another?"

"Only you would get _more_ polite after a drink. Have as much as you want, Peggy. I have more bottles in the cellar somewhere, I'll ask Jarvis where they're kept. You should take one home with you."

"Don't be ridiculous. You're not sending some fifty pound bottle of scotch home with me. I've no interest in being indebted to you."

"Aw, come on, Peggy, it's not a loan or anything. I mean, it's my place, isn't it? So just keep it in the cupboard and if you don't want any I'll have some when I'm over."

"When you're over? I seem to recall that you used that apartment as a place to bring women back to, and I don't think I've seen you around once since we moved in."

"You want I should visit more? Well, if you're saying you miss my handsome, devilish face in your life now all that SSR and Leviathan business is over with, I could make that happen."

"Mr. Stark, will you insist on using these... _lines_  on me as though I am some nineteen-year-old ingenue you're trying to impress?" Two glasses of whiskey isn't usually enough to get Peggy properly drunk, not since the war days, when drinking had been a survival skill. But she hasn't eaten much since lunch today, and she had downed the two glasses fairly quickly. Suffice it to say that as she leans back in the velvety plush armchair and regards him, perched on the edge of this unused desk in his s _econd_ study, there is a warmth in her cheeks and a smirk on her lips.

"Naw, I'm sorry, Peggy. I can't help it, you know my mouth runs a mile ahead of me most times. Look, what I... I've been meaning to ask you," he grimaces.

Peggy sighs. She's almost sure she doesn't want to know what he's going to say next, but the whiskey asks anyway. "Ask me what?"

"Just... how are you doing? And I don't mean 'fine, how are you'," he says, with what seems to be an unflattering attempt to mimic her accent and mannerisms. "I mean this has been a hell of a year and the one before it was too. I just want to make sure you're doing okay. Steve would never forgive me if I didn't help his best girl out any way I could."

Peggy finishes her third glass. She had been right with bells on about not wanting to hear this. "I'm fine, Howard. I'm fine. I'm moving on, and I don't need any more favors from you, and I _do_  not _want to talk about Steve!_ " The anger that's crept into her voice surprises her. Her eyes sting, and her face is still warm, but no longer in a pleasant way.

"No?" he asks. She shakes her head again. "Okay, we don't have to talk about Steve. Jesus, Peggy, please don't cry. We can talk about something else."

"I don't want to talk," Peggy says, setting her jaw. She stands and crosses the short distance between them. She begins by pulling at his necktie, and then methodically opening the buttons of his Arrow shirt, glad to have a task to focus on.

"Hold on, wait, wait, stop," Howard says, and grabs her hands. "Peggy, what are you doing? You're drunk. Stop it. Jesus."

"You and I both know it takes more than three glasses of anything for me to be properly drunk. I know perfectly well what I'm doing, and so do you. We respect each other. I trust you, with most things. You're attracted to me, and obviously you already know what you look like. I don't want to talk, or think, any more tonight. I don't think you really do, either. Now stop feeling guilty and do me this favor."

She waits, crossing her arms impatiently. Howard's face is a sight, eyes comically wide with confusion, mouth open. When he doesn't say anything she continues.

"Or, you can tell me you really don't want to do this, and I can go. We'll never speak of this again. It's perfectly alright. I'll go home, have a couple more drinks, and everything will be better in the morning.”

"Look, Peggy, you told me to stop lying to you, so I'm not gonna. It's not that I don't want to, because I do. I really do. But you're Steve's girl, you know? And I've never been friends with a dame like I am with you. I'd rather not fuck that up."

"I'm never going to be 'your girl', no, but this won't change anything. It'll be a friendly favor, yeah? Between friends. I'm in need of a bit of a good time at the moment, and I'm feeling brave, and I'm ready to-"

He kisses her, finally. It seems ludicrous that this is happening, and at the same time ludicrous that it never has before. It's been so long since anybody touched her like this, with intent. Since before Steve, honestly. They'd never really had the chance- no. The entire point was to stop thinking about Steve. Peggy tries to concentrate on the way his mouth feels, his smoothly shaven face, the smell of cigar smoke and whiskey and somewhere beneath them the laboratory. The smell is familiar, and not unpleasant somehow, and she returns to the previous work of getting the ridiculous jacket and shirt off him without breaking the kiss. It definitely limits her efficiency, but soon she's pushed them both down and off his shoulders. He willingly lifts off his undershirt and then leans back in to kiss her.

"Howard," she says between kisses. "If we're going to do it here, you should clear the desk. Is any of this valuable?"

"I don't give a shit," he says, and pushes what must be some fairly expensive office supplies to the floor. Peggy nods approvingly, then turns around.

"Would you be so kind as to help me out of this godforsaken dress?" He does, and his experience shows in the short few moments it takes him to dispatch with her girdle and brassiere. Peggy steps out of her pumps and shakes the stockings off onto the ground.

Just escaping that bloody girdle has her feeling ten times better, and she looks up to find that Howard is waiting for her, his trousers folded neatly and placed over the desk chair. He's lying back and looking at her, as if he expects her to climb on top of him. Instead, she hops onto the desk and stretches out next to him, pulling him towards her for another kiss. He puts one hand on each side of her and looks down.

"I appreciate your not asking if I'm sure," Peggy says. He nods, looking a little lost. His eyes flick down to her breasts, and then up to her face again.

"Can I?" She nods, and he begins pressing kisses all over her chest, down her breastbone, takes one breast into his hand and sucks on it. "Jesus Christ, you're gorgeous. I wanna make this so good for you. Talk to me, willya? How does this feel?"

It feels nice enough, nothing spectacular, so Peggy pulls him upward by the hair and directs him to a spot on her neck, right where it meets the clavicle. He kisses it obediently, and then sucks a bit harder. He might be leaving a mark, but the pleasure of it is finally starting to quiet the thoughts in her head. His fingers venture into the juncture of her thighs, and she notices, now, that she's practically dripping onto the desktop. He strokes up the length of her a few times, then slides one tentatively in. He hadn't asked her to reconsider, but his eyes seem to be checking every other minute that she hasn't, that he has permission, that this is good. This is not what she would have imagined sleeping with Howard Stark to be. She doesn't much feel like being looked at, even in the reverent way Howard is regarding her now.

"I'm ready," she says. Once again, he takes her at her word and obliges, reaching into the pocket of the trousers he'd laid out so carefully to produce a rubber. She finds herself pleasantly surprised at this amount of forethought, and while she's thinking about that he enters her, in one movement, smooth. The feeling of fullness is a bit strange, but welcome. It's been a long time, and Peggy catches herself counting back the years in her head. She shakes her head to clear it and tries to focus on the present, on the warm electric feeling of skin on skin, on the words Howard is whispering, though whether to himself or to her she can't tell.

"Gorgeous, baby, so beautiful."

"Feel so good, perfect, never thought-"

It's flattering, for all she's sure he's said the same to a dozen other girls this month, but she's feeling unsatisfied, so she pushes him over until he understands what she wants and lies down on his back. She climbs back on top and guides him inside again, and from this angle she can help herself with one hand while he holds her hips and watches. She's close faster than expected, faster than usual, and he's whispering again, how good she looks, how much he wants to see her come, and she closes her eyes against his gaze but the feeling overtakes her, electric and thrilling.

"Now you," she says, and he speeds up the pace of his upward thrusts "Yes, just like that, you've got it," and finally he comes, gasping and never looking away from her. After a few moments, Peggy climbs off gingerly, leaving him to deal with the mess as she pours herself one last glass of rye. She's smiling to herself, can't help it, feeling better than she has in ages.

"Thank you for that, Howard," she says as she begins the labor of reconstructing her evening wear. "It was great fun."

"Anytime, doll."

"Don't call me that," she scolds, but she's laughing in spite of herself.

 

**Author's Note:**

> What'd you think? This was one of those fics that I wrote just for myself, because I couldn't help it. If I were the kind of person who could write long!fic this would go on to become more Cartinelli and these two would never hook up again or at least not for 10-ish years. They are not soulmates. But I think there are other types of relationships that can be interesting and sexy. They have a very interesting dynamic/chemistry. Idk. If anyone can find out what wife beaters/tank tops were called in the 1940s please tell me, if I had found out this would have been posted 3 hrs ago. Thanks for reading!


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